DEATH OF THE MOOSE COW 91 



The young moose was not depressed, rejoicing 

 as he was in his new-found freedom. And all day 

 long the stealthy movements of the bush people 

 kept the solitudes alive. Though not so much as 

 a glint of their eyes could be seen, the calf knew 

 they were there, the mercurial ones, passing to 

 and fro. 



As the sun gained power the mists tiptoed away, 

 passing lightly down the forest aisles, clinging to 

 the spruce-tops as though loath to go. 



To be in the Alaskan forest as day begins is to 

 feel all the nameless, mysterious, witching attraction 

 of the unknown mute forces of life. The clean, 

 sweet smell of the vast wilderness ; the resinous 

 scent of the pines ; the braided grasses murmuring 

 a gentle lullaby ; the rush of the swollen river chan- 

 nelling its long journey to the sea ; the desire to 

 see the other side of each hollow and fallen trunk — 

 is all part of the irresistible glamour which lures a 

 vagrant farer to pause awhile. 



Abundance of water there was, budding lily- 

 roots, moose grass, and succulent bushes, and great 

 trees to form a barrier against the ice-touched winds 

 sweeping down from the guardian snow-clad peaks, 

 above whose towering pinnacles the eagles wheeled. 



